


La Petite Mort

by AnnaFan



Series: The Silk Road [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22819258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: In which much is made of the subtle differences between Sindarin as spoken in Gondor and by the Silvan Elves, we learn some Quenya and grapple with the subjunctive mood in Rohirric. Basically smut.Part of “The Silk Road” - sequel toDear DiaryandHazard Heart, prequel toWhenas in Silks.
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: The Silk Road [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/566350
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	La Petite Mort

Faramir pulled Éowyn behind a pillar, and glanced hastily around. Satisfied that none of the matrons of Gondor were looking, he raised her hand to his lips, kissing first her fingers, then her palm, then (most daringly) the inside of her wrist. He was just about to suggest that they adjourn to the dark shadows of the garden, when the youngest of the Dol Amroth brood came bouncing into view. Usually he felt Amrothos was the most annoying of them, but given her impeccable timing in this instance, he was prepared to cede that crown to Lothíriel for once.

“Cousin, dearest, what would you say is the precise difference between _gwanath_ and _gûr_?” She spoke in Westron, perhaps in deference to Éowyn's presence.

The deference was to no avail. She was standing just behind Éowyn and so could not see her facial expression, but Faramir took in only too clearly his beloved's expression of exasperation. However, he knew Lothíriel well enough to know that she'd be like a dog with a bone, and his best chance of getting rid of her was to answer the question as quickly as possible.

“Well, 'gûr', as you know, simply means 'death'. 'Gwannath' is a somewhat archaic word, which also means death, but carries the more specific connotation of the act or moment of dying.” At this point a servant passed with wine, and Faramir seized the opportunity to acquire fresh goblets for himself and Éowyn. Lothíriel pouted at being left out. 

“No need to pull that face, coz,” Faramir added. “I would imagine that by this stage of the evening's activities, you have drunk plenty. In any case, why do you ask?”

“Oh, Amrothos and Lord Legolas were arguing – Roth mentioned 'gûr' and Legolas seemed to think that 'gwannath' would be a better word.”

“In what context?” asked her cousin (now beginning to despair of any more time alone with his lady love). He took a sip of his wine, by way of compensation.

“Well, I missed the beginning of the conversation, so I'm not precisely sure, but it was something about the precise difference between _pîn gwanath_ and _pîn gûr_.”

Faramir promptly choked on his wine. Éowyn patted him rather firmly between the shoulder blades. Lothíriel immediately put two and two together.

“Oh, were they talking about something Aunt Ivriniel would rather I didn't know about? How splendid. So… in what context would one use those phrases?”

“One wouldn't...” Faramir's voice was tart. “Or rather, you wouldn't.”

“You are no fun at all,” said Lothíriel, stamping a dainty foot (the impact somewhat undermined by the fact that it was clad in a soft, jewelled dancing slipper).

~o~O~o~

“We really should have risen and broken our fast an hour ago…” Éowyn murmured, lazily.

“As indeed I would have done, had you not delayed my departure,” Faramir responded, and trailed a line of kisses across her shoulder.

Éowyn snorted softly. “I could have sworn that the delay was your idea,” she responded, her fingers drawing circles on the firm muscles of his back.

Through the open casement, a bell chimed.

“Cursed cock of a kinslayer, already the second hour of the morning.” Faramir finally cast the coverlets to one side and leapt out of bed. “Morgoth's balls, only an hour to find the relevant volumes of law before the council starts.” He hopped round the room, pulling on breeches and hose, dragging his shirt over his head. 

Éowyn rose in a rather more leisurely fashion, and started to dress, a smile on her face.

“To think that when I first met you, I completely misunderstood you on so many fronts. I thought you were so prudish and polite, kissing me on the palm of the hand or on the wrist.” She gave a laugh. “It was several weeks before I realised that a kiss on the wrist is a Gondorian man's way of saying 'bed, now, wench, before I hitch your skirts round your waist and have at you up against the wall'.” 

“I'd never call you 'wench',” said Faramir, sounding more than a bit aggrieved.

Éowyn stepped close to him, and dropped a kiss on his chest, before starting to lace up his shirt for him. 

“Yes my love, that is true, for I could not imagine a man more respectful than you.” But then she gave a positively wicked smile and added, “But there's no denying you'd think it – or something very like. At least, now you've discovered I am not made of fine porcelain, and, far from breaking if you push me up against a wall, I am much more likely to wrap my legs around you, dig my heels into your arse and spur you on.”

To her delight, the steward actually blushed at this summation – then nodded his head, for he was a truthful man. Then (despite his tardiness) he pulled her in close, his hands drifting down to her arse, and gave her a long and lingering kiss. “I shall hold you to that this evening.”

_~o~O~o~_

Éowyn followed Faramir into the library. He was now soberly dressed in a black and silver tunic, the white linen shirt beneath tightly laced at cuffs and collar, breeches tucked into highly polished black boots. His hair was tamed, neat braids holding it back from his temples, falling in a glossy sheet like a raven's wing over the nape of his neck. As she watched him reach for the first of the legal volumes he needed, she reflected that he cut a very fine, imposing figure of a man. And one very different from the one in their bed only an hour or so earlier, that beautiful dark hair spread in disarray across the pillow. One whom she had urged on (as she demonstrated her skill at riding) with the words _cum, min leof, cum_. Who (being an obliging man who took great pleasure in doing what his beloved suggested) had dutifully done just that, lips parted, cheeks flushed, dark lashes making patterns against his skin as his eyelids fluttered shut. 

Her train of thought was interrupted by a scuffling noise, then the thud of a book falling to the floor, then a low oath, delivered in a feminine voice, in Sindarin.

Faramir put the book on the table, and peered round the shelves into the next bay of the library.

“Lothi, what in Elbereth's name are you doing here?”

“Reading,” came the rather pert answer. Followed by (for Lothíriel knew the value of a counter-attack as a defensive strategy) “How lovely to see you, my Lady Éowyn. And how very early you have come to call on my cousin.”

“He is preparing for a council meeting – I said that I would check some of the volumes he has to gather for references to the Oath of Eorl,” Éowyn replied, smoothly, but her eyes narrowed slightly.

“I have been doing my own researches,” Lothíriel said disingenuously. “It seems that both _pîn gwanath_ and _pîn gûr_ were used in Numenorean times, a Sindarin rendering of the Quenya _anquallë_ (note the double lambe which turns it into the diminutive form - _anquallë_ for little death rather than simply _anqualë_ ). Among the suggested Westron translations...” Here, Lothíriel turned to Éowyn, “Suggestions include 'to die', obviously, but also 'to melt', 'to fade' and even – though this one seems a little prosaic – 'to come'.”

Éowyn was struck with amusement at how very like her cousin Lothíriel could be at times like this. And also struck with amusement at the thunderous look on Faramir's face: he looked like he was about to explode. 

Lothíriel continued merrily – whether unaware of the impending explosion, or trying to provoke just that for her own entertainment, Éowyn wasn't quite sure. She suspected the latter. “Of course it makes sense that my brother would know of such things. His behaviour with the Lady Siliveth was nothing short of scandalous, and most amusingly so. But I must profess myself a little surprised at Lord Legolas.” 

At this, Éowyn couldn't stop herself laughing. “You wouldn't be, had you been there at the aftermath of Helm's Deep. There's nothing like nearly meeting death – real death rather than metaphorical death – to make a man, or a woman, quite keen to embrace the metaphorical version by way of release. And Legolas appeared only too happy to oblige those among the women of the Mark who sought such a release. And appeared to have considerable reserves of stamina in meeting those obligations.” 

"Ah,” said Lothiriel. “That explains it. And also...” She paused for a moment, as if assessing how provoking she wished to be. “The two of you. I mean, Faramir has always been so proper and strait-laced. Up until now.” 

“Lothíriel!” Faramir bellowed. 

Éowyn took the young woman by the forearm. “I think now might be a good moment to find ourselves some breakfast and leave Faramir to his law books. Before he conducts his very own personal kin-slaying.” She ushered Lothíriel out the door, pausing only long enough to say, over her shoulder, “Before you shout any more, _min leof_ , do bear in mind that her reading of the situation is entirely accurate.”

__~o~O~o~_ _

That night, as Faramir unlaced Eowyn's gown, she remarked, “I think I learned more useful phrases in Sindarin today than in months previously. I even learned some useful Quenya. Have you come across the word _pukku_?”  


“Mmm,” her betrothed murmured into her skin as he eased the gown off her shoulder. “Yes. I remember a particularly tedious epic poem which likened that part to a calla lily.” 

“No! Really? The language of the Mark may be prosaic, as your cousin puts it, but at least it's not plain daft.” 

“I think you should teach me more words in your language,” Faramir suggested, as she unlaced the collar and cuffs of his shirt. “I know _min leof_ , my beloved, but there must be more.” 

“Well, there's _min meregrot_ \- my pearl. And _min eorclanstan_ – my precious jewel.” Eowyn paused, turned rather pink and then added, “As words they do double duty. As endearments, and as words for… Oh…” 

The rather long-drawn out sigh was occasioned by Faramir's hand indicating that he had grasped, indeed was grasping, precisely what she meant. He whispered in her ear “And the verb you taught me the other day? _Liccian_ , wasn't it?” 

Éowyn sagged against his chest. “Oh… Yes…” He lifted her up and carried her over to the bed, laying her on the coverlet. 

“I suppose you'd have to teach me the imperative, just so I understood your instructions…” He started to kiss his way slowly up from her ankle towards her knee, then further, nibbling at the soft skin of her thigh, to indicate what was on offer. 

“ _Licca min meregrot_ …” 

Faramir paused just for a moment. “And the subjunctive – so I could say that I would do so till the end of time if you wanted me to.” He stopped talking and applied himself to the task at hand. 

“ _Liccode_ … But… I don't think… it will take that long…,” Eowyn managed to gasp, before tangling her fingers in his hair (now disarrayed once more) and crying out “ _Ic cume_...” 


End file.
